Into the Fjord

Where the saltwater rapids rage
and foam at the mouth,
there, where tidal currents mold
and drag silver-sliver streams,
a rowboat bobs.

Through ice-green lips the four oars cut -
onto mirror tongue that licks
the vessel’s shelled camouflage,
darker than the deep throat ahead;
sea eagle cries.

With soft white gums the valley looms,
rock-rot teeth ready to strike
at anyone who dares enter her
ice-scoured sacred waterways;
the sky rumbles.